


I Just Want to Dance in Your Tangles

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Anathema is mentioned, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, As Crowley's therapist, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale just doesn't know it yet, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, I'm trying out chapters and I apologize, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild fatphobia, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Past Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Seriously Crowley is a pine tree in designer sunglasses, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sort Of, This is pretty much a hallmark movie, Top Crowley (Good Omens), breakup and makeup, brief mention of weight gain, well more like friends to enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Aziraphale, a recent graduate from Oxford with a master's in Literature, owns a bookshop, lives with his flashy-yet-taciturn best friend Crowley and is happy, for the most part. An ill-fated trip to an awful production of Romeo & Juliet introduces him to the handsome and charming Gabriel. It seems like he's going to live a fantasy happily ever after, but what happens when the fantasy fails and he ends up back home? What happens when a shockingly familiar figure is found operating a shockingly familiar bookshop? Can over a decade of silence and ignored feelings be smoothed over to make way for something good? What about something life changing?In which we watch human versions of our favorite ineffable idiots bumble through the process of falling in love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 107
Collections: Ineffable Humans AU





	1. Right Where You Are

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent horseshit I think I've ever written and I'm not even a little bit sorry.
> 
> Title from Gardenhead/Leave Me Alone by Neutral Milk Hotel
> 
> As always, be kind.
> 
> Should be updated and completed by 10/9.

LAX is an absolute disaster on the best of days, so why Aziraphale thought to fly out on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is a mystery to himself and likely to the rest of the tired, cranky drones milling about the gate.

He's going back to London.

He's going back to _London._

The thought makes him dizzy for the 50th time that hour and he has to fold his hands together and _squeeze_ until his fingers ache to prevent himself from hyperventilating or finally vibrating enough to make independent human flight possible.

He hasn't been to London in 11 years. He remembers leaving like it was yesterday; the bittersweet feeling like a rock in his stomach. It hadn't felt like running away at the time, it'd felt like he was running toward something. It wasn't until he'd made two more trips around the Sun that he realized, _Oh, perhaps it isn't that simple_.

It didn't matter, by then it was already too late.

* * *

Aziraphale Fell graduated from Oxford with his Master's in Literature, stars in his eyes, and his heart set on a lovely storefront in Soho. He'd come to Oxford a shy, sheltered man with too many dreams and little by the way of real world experience, but he'd found his calling in the pages of the books he so loved and he wanted nothing more than to surround himself with them. 

His best friend, Crowley (or Anthony J. Crowley, Esq., as his brand new business cards say - matte black with a shock of crimson lettering, "If you're going to do it, do it with _style_ , angel."), had been a kid from a broken home with nothing but a ratty duffle bag and a chip on his shoulder when they'd met during Aziraphale's first year. Advanced degrees are expensive, so Aziraphale had taken to working part time at a tea and coffee shop called Tracy's to make ends meet. Being a lifelong insomniac and a loner by choice, he'd been happy to work the less desirable "arse crack of dawn" and "garbage hour of the evening" shifts that no one else had wanted to brave. It was during these times that he became friendly with a red-haired disaster that had a penchant for falling asleep in the shop's squashy reading chairs. Over time, they'd managed to develop an oddly close friendship. Aziraphale had been surprised; Crowley didn't seem the type to befriend jumper-wearing bookworms (granted, he didn't seem the type to befriend _anyone_ ), but he was eternally grateful that they'd met.

Through their almost decade long acquaintance, Crowley had become Aziraphale's confidant, support system, and a nearly symbiotic presence in his life. At the time, he couldn't imagine living without the menace who shouted at their shared houseplants, sometimes got sloshed and glued coins to the ground to watch people struggle to pick them up, and hadn't so much asked to share a flat as kept sleeping on Aziraphale's couch until he shouted that he should just _"damn well move in then, you absolute fiend."_

Those had been some of the best years of Aziraphale's life; just sharing space with Crowley, listening to him argue himself silly preparing for debates, watching him work himself into a tizzy only to pass out on Aziraphale's old sofa when he'd gone too far.

In hindsight, it'd taken him far too long to figure out what the feeling in his chest was when he watched the lines on Crowley's face fade in sleep.

Then he met Gabriel and everything had, quite quickly, gone to shit.

Gabriel had been everything Aziraphale had thought he'd never have. They'd met shortly after Aziraphale had purchased the storefront for his shop; he and Crowley had decided to spend some of their measly earnings on an amateur production of _Romeo & Juliet, _where Gabriel had played a shockingly bad Mercutio. While Crowley had been fundamentally appalled, Aziraphale had been charmed when they'd run into Gabriel at a pub afterwards where he profusely apologized for his butchering his delivery, his inability to make his American accent anything other than booming, and admitting, shame-faced, that he didn't really understand Shakespeare.

What he did understand, though, were how his blue-bordering-on-lavender eyes would warm flamboyant, ice-blond booksellers to their very core. He'd all but ignored Crowley's glaring and scoffing (in Crowley's defense, Gabriel's pickup strategy was vomit-inducing; "Maybe you could give me some _private_ lessons so I can learn the tongue of Shakespeare", and watching his friend blush the prettiest pink for it was truly the last straw), and instead waged a one-man assault on all of Aziraphale's good sense until he agreed to go home with him.

The "private lesson" turned into a very private, _hands-on_ , session in lovemaking, and eventually barreled into a full-blown relationship. Aziraphale's first since meeting Crowley (interesting that he'd never given that any thought).

Crowley handled it poorly at first, and truly awfully as time went on. By his own admission, Crowley was not the relationship kind. Once, about a year after they'd met, they had been a few bottles deep and Crowley had confessed that he fell in love exactly _once_ and had never gotten over it. Aziraphale, a professional at reading anything, including a room, had seen the subsequent quiet for what it was and graciously let it go, allowed Crowley to keep his secrets. He didn't have a right to what was in Crowley's heart, really, and what kind of friend would he be to push? He had ignored the overwhelming desire to pry the answer from Crowley's lips and convince the awful sod who'd broken his heart to fix it. A heart that lovely should be nothing but full, he thought briefly and promptly forced the thought from his mind. That way had been a road to madness, nothing less.

Unfortunately, Crowley's resistance to his relationship only got worse, to the point where he refused to help Aziraphale pack when Gabriel had asked him to move in with him after just a few months of seeing each other. He'd stubbornly refused to find a new roommate and complained to Aziraphale constantly that his lack of presence was killing their plants and driving him to the point of insanity. Initially, Aziraphale had shrugged it off as Crowley's general dislike of change, but things didn't change and their situation wasn't sustainable; not like that.

Two years in, Gabriel got his big break; he was to star in an American sitcom about a middle manager trying to corral a bunch of unruly workers into doing his bidding. Crowley felt that the role was _perfect_ for Gabriel, arsehole that he was, and Aziraphale was just so proud of Gabriel, so star-struck that someone with movie-star good looks and charming disposition would spend his time with someone so frumpy and introverted.

There was also the fact that Gabriel had to move to LA. There was also the fact that he asked Aziraphale to move with him and he'd given a resounding _yes_. There was also the fact that Crowley was steadfastly against this new development and threw a tantrum that lead to what could only be called an Almighty Sulk.

_"I'm going with him, Crowley. I love him. This is what you do for the people you love! You support them!"_

_"He wants you to give up everything, angel! The Aziraphale I know wouldn't give up his books for anything."_

_"I'm fairly certain I can bring my books with me, Crowley, honestly."_

_"You know what? Go ahead. Do what you want, but me? I'm not hanging around to see the fallout. You're worth more than this; some trophy boy on a big movie star's arm."_

_"I'm hardly the trophy, Crowley."_

_"Hardly the-, Aziraphale do you honestly think-, you know what? Not my problem. Do what you want."_

He'd stormed out of Aziraphale and Gabriel's shared apartment with a bone rattling slam of the door and that had been it. A week or so later Aziraphale was leaving Heathrow, bags and books in tow, to watch his boyfriend become a movie star. He remembered thinking that it was the start of his life. He remembered wondering when he and Crowley would patch things up.

He didn't realize it was the beginning of the end and that, most heartbreaking of all, that he and Crowley wouldn't.

* * *

The flight, like the airport, had been Crowded, long, and Aziraphale was absolutely knackered when he sets foot on UK soil. He knew he had to start somewhere, but he couldn't make his feet carry him out of the airport. Once he did, this would be real. He would be back home, sans boyfriend of eleven years, with no flat, no plan, and no direction. It's 5:07AM, the arse-crack of dawn here, but he still feels like he's just winding down for the evening, and he hasn't even thought to _call_ anyone to tell them he's here. He doesn't want to think about how few people there are to call.

He could call his sister; Michael still lives in London he thinks, although they haven't spoken in years. She'd always been an early riser, but he doesn't want to explain himself. He doesn't want to tell his sister that he'd caught Gabriel with one of his costars, in flagrante delicto, had felt precisely _nothing_ about it, had calmly packed up his essentials and decided he was leaving.

He hadn't even realized he'd fallen out of love. He'd had a beautiful home, all of the books he could want; he didn't think about whether or not he was happy. That was his life and he had been grateful.

But when he'd gone into their bedroom to find someone else in Gabriel's arms, he'd been mostly annoyed that he couldn't get the chest from under the bed out at that moment to retrieve a first edition Wilde.

Gabriel tried to apologize and when Aziraphale responded, he was shocked to find himself saying, " _It's fine. I'm sorry for interrupting."_ like he'd bothered Gabriel in his study. He'd gone to the guest bedroom (that he'd begun to think of his _his_ room at some point, not that he could remember when) and realized that he had nothing keeping him here. He'd booked himself a ticket to London for the following week, packed a few items, and stayed at a hotel. That was it. There was no tearful goodbye; just the punctuation on a sentence that'd already been written.

It was poetic, he supposed. 

There were more pressing issues at present, though. Specifically where he was going to stay and what, exactly, he was going to do. His last week in LA had been largely spent in a haze and he hadn't done anything so helpful as book himself into a hotel so here he stood, steps away from London for the first time in over a decade, without a clue what to do next.

He pulled out his phone, opened the Uber app, and requested a ride to the only address he could remember. A little over a half hour later, he was stood across from an unbelievable sight.

 _A.Z. Fell & Co._ was still standing. He hadn't met the person who bought the building, the transaction had been largely handled by the company Gabriel had hired, but he always figured they'd sell it. It was a lovely location and would be an attractive spot for some new bustling business; something less operated by a bookhoarder masquerading as a bookseller. Regardless, Aziraphale had been in love and entirely too focused on Gabriel's exciting career to give it more than a moment of thought. His removal from the process had also afforded him to the opportunity to avoid the pit-in-his-stomach feeling, and voice in his head (that sounded entirely too much like Crowley), that told him he was giving up too much.

Seeing it now, was like being transported back. It looked _exactly the same_ from the outside; like a living monument to what he'd left behind. Like he'd never left at all. Who would have bought the business and kept it the same? Who could have been so enamored with his, admittedly poor, business plan?

His heart set off racing as he stood like a statue and stared, unblinking, from across the street. He must have been there for quite some time, because the chill in the air was getting to him (he remembered something about blood thinning out when in a warm climate, it seemed like nonsense, but at this point he was inclined to agree) and his feet were aching. Like a beacon, the light in a shop turned on and he could see someone milling about. When they opened the curtains, Aziraphale's heart stopped dead in his chest.

He knew that shock of red hair; he'd know it anywhere. Could pick it out among a crowd of ginger-haired people. He knew those long limbs and tight black clothes. It was Crowley, _his_ Crowley. The details were all there, ready to be strung together, but his brain refused to process the equation. In what lifetime did Crowley, hot-shot Solicitor and totem of sleek and sexy and detached _Anthony-It's-just-a-J-really Crowley_ , keep Aziraphale's bookshop running?

He'd figured that Crowley had moved on, forgotten about him. It would be reasonable, considering how they left things. Considering that Crowley never returned Aziraphale's few calls and had left their friendship to fizzle. Considering that Crowley was always the one with something to hide. Considering that Crowley hadn't cared that Aziraphale was happy.

Considering that Crowley had been right about Gabriel and considering that he hadn't missed Aziraphale at all. Or had he?

All of a sudden the front door of the shop is opens, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafting across the street, and there he is. Backlit by warm lamplight, is the Crowley in question, there's no mistaking it. He bends down to make sure that door is fixed open and when he stands up he sees Aziraphale. His jaw drops, his eyes get comically wide, and he slams the door so hard Aziraphale is reminded of their last meeting.

Unlike the last time though, the door opens back up. Crowley's eyes are closed and he looks like he's trying to breathe deeply and reorient himself. Aziraphale can't make out much, but he's clearly saying something to himself. When he opens his eyes and they lock with Aziraphale again, he can clearly hear Crowley's response.

_"Well, fuck me."_

* * *


	2. That's Where I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's side of the story, both past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanted Crowley's perspective, right? I thought you might.

There are things he needs to be doing. There’s a small group of regulars that tend to come in for a bracingly strong cup of coffee only moments after he opens the doors and he’s wasting precious prep time, but for the life of him he cannot move from this spot.

_Christ,_ he can’t be imagining things again. Seeing his ang-, seeing _Aziraphale_ , out of the corner of his eye wherever he happens to be is very six years ago of him; a trip down memory lane he could frankly do without. This time, though, his imagination has really outdone itself. Kudos for both creativity and a true dedication to making him deeply miserable. Not only is he being pulled under the current by those changeable eyes, like brackish water, but his mind is adding a few more laugh lines around his (soft, so very soft looking) lips, and perhaps a couple of more inches around his waist and thighs but that might be more wish fulfillment than creativity. Either way, it’s not even 6:00AM and he’s hallucinating and fending off a spectacular panic attack, and isn’t this what his bloody therapist is for? He’s _past this_. He’s worked hard to be past this.

Then, as if moving in slow motion, the apparition drops a heavy brown satchel and gives him a small wave. He _knows_ that wave (and the movement of those broad shoulders) like the back of his hand and the only thing he’s less prepared for than slipping back into insanity is for Aziraphale to actually be _here._

Here is where Crowley is, which for the last decade at least means it’s precisely where Aziraphale _isn’t_. Here is where Crowley rebuilt his shamble of a life when he found himself quite decidedly _alone_. Here is the shop under the flat they used to share; where he tossed out his life plan and spent his savings buying a bookshop because if he could have his ang-, his _friend_ , in his life then he was damn well going to keep his dream alive.

Crowley’s dreams hadn’t mattered much to him, really. He’d been born to a pair of emotionally distant, borderline apathetic, parents and had escaped the iron bars of Edinburgh at his earliest opportunity. He’d put himself through college, and later graduate school, working himself into the ground to keep his scholarships and his shitty flat afloat concurrently barely existing outside of those twin responsibilities. His main source of energy was a distinct caffeine addiction, which had eventually led him into Tracy’s because they were the only place in a half hour radius that served drinkable coffee late and he’d never really stopped. They were also the only place where you could get your coffee served to you by an actual living angel. That latter piece set the stage for all his life plans; he’d never wanted a future really until he’d met that fussy, prissy, secret bastard of an angel that turned his whole life upside down. That’s when he’d made plans.

Unfortunately, those had all gone up in smoke over a decade ago to the tune of a slammed door and his own stubborn pride. For a brief period of time, he’d tried to move on, but when people started coming to look at the bookshop with the intent of purchasing it, and when he realized it was fucking _Gabriel_ who was handling the sale, he made the rash decision to just buy the damn place himself so that when Aziraphale came to his senses he could slot back into his old life.

Over time it had become clear that wouldn’t come to pass, but by that point Crowley was deep in denial, frequently seeing Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, struggling with depression and his deep-seated abandonment issues (the ones that lead him to ignore Aziraphale’s calls for long enough that he could just pick up the phone and make nice), and so disillusioned with his old life that there wasn’t any going back. He found a therapist (Anathema was a godsend, truly), made a business plan, and turned A.Z. Fell & Co. into a generally profitable business successful enough that he could explain his antisocial tendencies with the challenges of running his own business.

That way when his regulars asked if he’d met anyone, or if he’d like to, he didn’t have to say, “Sorry, I gave my heart away to my best friend and he tossed it into the Atlantic on the way to his fancy new life in LA.”

_Anyway_ , Crowley was fine. He really was. He wasn’t miserable all of the time and he’d gotten better, really, he had. You can ask anyone (you can ask Anathema; there’s no one else to ask). But this? Seeing Aziraphale again is not something he’s ever planned for. His six years of intensive therapy has been to manage the reality that this wouldn’t ever happen. So, what does he do now?

Standing and gaping like a fish and dropping his favorite mug to the ground while his first cup of coffee of the day sadly drips down the steps isn’t a great idea, but it has the benefit of being accurate. He should clean it up; sweep up the pieces and make sure that the store is ready for when people need him to _do things_ , because that’s what he does literally every day, but he can’t look away. He can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s real and flesh, and he’s spent so many days trying to convince himself that their entire relationship was some kind of adult imaginary friend situation, but he can’t do that if he’s _here._

And then it hits him, with a wave of crippling embarrassment, that Aziraphale knows _everything_ now. Crowley’s deep dark secret; that he couldn’t let go to the point where he threw away his degree and took up the angel’s mantle instead. His entire heart, it’s all here in the backdrop. He can tell, as if from very far away, that he’s beginning to hyperventilate. His vision is narrowing to a point and the last thought he has is, “Well isn’t this just _ducky_ ”, before everything goes black.

* * *

_“I’m hardly the trophy, Crowley.”_

_“Hardly the-, Aziraphale do you honestly think-, you know what? Not my problem. Do what you want.”_

He slams the door so hard he can feel the reverberation in his skull and he’s gritting his teeth so hard he thinks they might crack. How can his brilliant, clever angel, who’s read damn near every book in his shop, be so stupid? This twat Gabriel (“ _Honestly Crowley, must you use that language? Gabriel’s quite nice when you get used to him.”_ , the angel in his head scolds) had _no idea_ the gift he’s been given. Crowley’s wanted Aziraphale to look at him like that for _years_ and he knows it’ll never happen, certainly not now, but he still relished every moment he got to spend with his best friend. Gabriel, who tries to get Aziraphale to eat less and jog with him even though jogging is boring and doesn’t appreciate how lovely and perfect Aziraphale is just as-is, and talks over him instead of giving him the opportunity to share his thoughts (they’re such good thoughts).

Okay, he’s probably being _slightly_ unfair. Gabriel has apologized for most of his indiscretions from early on in their relationship and he _does_ take Aziraphale to the best restaurants and buy him fancy bowties, and probably also treats him well in other ways that make Crowley sick to his stomach. But, regardless, he doesn’t see how Aziraphale isn’t more distraught about giving up his bookshop. It’s all he’s talked about since he took a bedraggled Crowley under his wing and breathed life into him for the first time. The day A.Z. Fell & Co. opened, he thought that Aziraphale might start actually glowing from pride and contentment. He has that vision saved in his mind, reassuringly well-thumbed, for any time he feels like he’s spiraling. It isn’t helping so much now.

As he’s wont to do, he goes home, drops his things and pulls out a bottle of scotch. He’s about to pour it when he thinks better of it and drinks straight from the bottle. It’s not a glass kind of night. Within an hour or so he’s on his way to completely sloshed and he can’t tell if the haziness in his vision is due to the alcohol or the tears he’s steadfastly refusing to acknowledge. He keeps looking through his phone at the hundreds of candid pictures he’s taken of Aziraphale and the numerous selfies and it’s all going to come to an end. What’s the use of being a big shot Solicitor if he can’t use the proceeds to spoil Aziraphale silly? That was the plan; get a big shot job with a big shot paycheck, and then woo his angel like he deserved. Only someone had gotten there sooner.

Eventually he fell asleep with his favorite picture open; it’d been taken the Christmas before Aziraphale and Gabriel had met. Aziraphale was standing aside the front door of the shop while carolers sang an awful version of _Silent Night_. Aziraphale had let his hair go long a bit, and it was curling just below his ears and he looked so happy, so content with the season and his books and Crowley’s company.

That’s how it went, more or less, for the next week. Crowley stayed in the flat, reminiscing and hating himself and definitely not returning Aziraphale’s calls or texts because what was there to say?

Finally, it was the day he knew Aziraphale would be leaving. He got up, put his best brave face on, and went to leave through the bookshop’s back door. He couldn’t let him leave without patching things up, maybe sucking up his pride and making plans to visit them. When he got out to the street, he saw someone at the front of the shop, except he wasn’t trying to see what Aziraphale’s (completely impossible to interpret) store hours were. Instead he was putting up a “For Sale” sign. Crowley spent a long time staring at it. Somehow it hadn’t hit that his best friend was moving for good until that moment.

By the time he got into his new-to-him Bentley (he had _plans_ for that car) and drove to Aziraphale and Gabriel’s place, they’d already left. Crowley sped to the airport as far as he could convince the car to go, but by the time he got to Heathrow Aziraphale’s flight was already boarding. He stood and watched it take off. He thought about texting Aziraphale and wishing him the best, but something stopped him. Instead, he went home and went to sleep, hoping that the universe would be kind enough to let him sleep for a week, or a month, or even longer. What did it matter anymore?

A few days later Aziraphale called. Crowley held the phone and watched his favorite photo and favorite name flash across the screen until it went black. He swore he’d call back the next day, but one day became three, which became 14, and then Aziraphale called _again_ but Crowley didn’t pick up _again_ , and by the time he thought he should stop sulking and ignoring the missed calls it’d been nearly four months and Aziraphale had stopped calling.

How do you fix something after months of tense silence? Crowley didn’t know. He also didn’t know how much longer he could keep running off potential buyers for the shop downstairs. They came by every so often and Crowley could hear them from the flat above and each time it made his chest tighten and his heart ache. He found a solution at the bottom of a regrettable bottle of merlot (honestly, it’d been a twist off, what was he expecting?). Before he knew it, he was dialing the number from the sign on the front door (he’d memorized it, he didn’t know why) and saying he was interested in purchasing it. He set a meeting, explained that he lived in the flat above and had wanted to open his own business (lie) for some time and felt that a bookshop would be just lovely (lie, although he did feel rather fondly about it). He had just enough in his savings for a down payment and before he knew it, the godforsaken sign was gone, and Crowley was the owner of A.Z. Fell & Co. He doubts Gabriel even noticed the name on the purchase agreement.

He spent a lot of time those first few months as owner shouting at customers and being generally disagreeable; like a troll but instead of a cave he lived in the back of the shop, barely shaved, let his hair grow below his shoulders, and drunkenly shouted at anyone who dared to move a single piece of his living shrine to his best friend.

Eventually, a woman came in during what were ostensibly business hours but were really just Crowley pretending to run a business and taking out his existential anger and heartbreak on strangers and was _not_ put off by the ginger skeleton living on the couch. She looked at him, gave him her card, and told him to call her. When he looked down and saw “Anathema Device, Therapist” on the simple card he laughed. Then he cried. Then he eventually called her, started fixing his broken heart, and made a business plan to change the shop from a living altar to a café with an extremely thorough library.

He still startled every time he saw a beige coat, or ice blond curls, or soft, strong hands. He still sometimes swore that if he stared hard enough into the shop, he could see Aziraphale still there. But eventually, he started living his life again. Maybe it wasn’t the one he wanted, and maybe falling in love wasn’t in the cards for him, but that didn’t matter. He could do this. He could be happy enough.

And that’s how things progressed, each day much like the last, while Crowley built a small manageable life for himself. Until the most beautiful hallucination he’d ever seen proved to be extremely real and he quite promptly lost consciousness.


	3. I'm Your Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old wounds are, eventually, addressed although not until they've misunderstood just about everything they possible can. Both POVs in this chapter.
> 
> Light discussion of body image issues, weight gain (not in a fetish-y way at all) and mild fatphobia. Gabriel isn't the worst here, but he's certainly not the best either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, this may end up being longer than expected so I'm going to stop guessing at how many chapters it's going to be. Probably four? But I'm playing with the idea of an epilogue. I could also do a sequel depending on the response.
> 
> Basically I don't know what I'm doing at all, and I apologize.

The inside of the shop was both alarmingly familiar and startlingly different, which really said more about Aziraphale's state of concern than it did about the actual nature of his former business. The day had been jam-packed with life altering circumstances and somewhere between meeting the ochre of Crowley's eyes for the first time in so long and seeing his entire matchstick body collapse on the steps Aziraphale's instinct for _fix_ and _care_ overtook his penchant for panic. He'd rush across the street, immediately picked Crowley up ( _much too thin, Lord he has not cared for himself)_ and brought him inside to the squashy old sofa in his, no _the_ , no, _Crowley's_ office. Or so it would seem. Once he ascertained that Crowley did have a pulse and was actually breathing, he nipped back outside to grab his suitcase and bag, the remains of the mug Crowley had been holding, dumb all items inside the front door and lock up. He could argue with his friend-, with _Crowley_ , when he came to.

Part of him wanted to leave. He saw that the stationary desk was still in the same place (the half of the shop that seemed unchanged) and thought he might be able to write a quick note- _Crowley, lovely to see you. Went to find some lodgings. Hope you're well when you come to. Mind how you go,_ but that seemed awfully impersonal, even for a wretch of a friend who'd never called back to patch things up. 

Another part of him thought he should stay; make sure Crowley was alright, although that was likely the same part that couldn't stop staring at him. It was clear that Crowley hadn't been in a rush to reconnect and Aziraphale was not about to force the issue, but these were extenuating circumstances. Surely he'd understand the intrusion given that he was just concerned for Crowley's safety, right? 

Either way, he was still staring. Which probably meant something but Aziraphale was too knackered to delve into _that_ particular thought.

He finally settled on staying for a bit longer and deciding what to do when later came, he started to look around. On one side, a good portion of his remaining library still stood, with a number of additions. They had Crowley written all over them; pulp fiction, fantasy, and some honest-to-goodness bodice rippers sat comfortably alongside a few fifth edition Austen novels, dystopian future and alternate history snuggled with some lovely Shakespeare volumes. While the part of Aziraphale who cultivated a wide selection of rare first additions bristled, another part bloomed at the representation of his interests and Crowley's nested so closely together. He caught the thought and furiously dismissed it; this wasn't a projection of Crowley's feelings. This was Crowley evidently having used the remainder of the books he'd included with the sale of the shop to build his own business off of it. He can fathom _why_ really, considering that last he knew Crowley was gunning to be a hot shot solicitor not a small business owner, but alas those questions will have to wait.

The other side of the shop is _very_ different and sends Aziraphale careening in whole other directions that have to do with _steam_ and _humidity_ and their effects on binding resin and antique pages, but that's really not the most pressing observation (surprising as that is, even to Aziraphale himself). Aziraphale wouldn't have been caught dead owning something as trendy as a _coffee shop,_ but he could see the appeal now. Crowley had surely made a lovely one. There were comfortable chairs, love seats, and a few mismatched (but not appalling) chairs placed strategically to take advantage of the natural light, and a lovely modern bar offering a wide variety of tea and coffee offerings scribbled out on a chalk board in Crowley's barely legible handwriting. Over ten years and some things hadn't changed.

An old wound, scabbed and scarred over time and time again, starts to ache in Aziraphale's chest. It had started with the slammed door and ended, well, never really. It seems that it's not so much healed as a pain lived with. He hasn't sought out the feeling in quite some time, but he used to. In the morning when he'd catch a rerun of _Golden Girls,_ and whenever he saw a black vintage car or red hair or a cocky smile, he'd seek out that phantom ache in his chest because it was the only way to stop the breath from leaving his lungs. After he'd met Crowley, he'd never imagined his life without him. Before he met Gabriel, he assumed he and Crowley might just go on like they had; them against the world. He hadn't counted on meeting Gabriel. He hadn't counted on caring more about Crowley's friendship than Crowley had cared about his.

But after months of no response; no call, voicemail, text, letter, or message in skywriting, Aziraphale had given up. He could take a hint and if Crowley's friendship was conditional, then he wasn't missing much of anything. He went on. That's what he'd always done. He stopped searching out that pain to keep the flicker of their connection alive. 

Now he finds it as tender, aching, and gaping as ever. Time, as it turns out, does not heal all wounds.

He feels _exhausted_ all of a sudden; the entirety of the last several weeks catching up with him. _Good lord,_ he knew things had been tepid with Gabriel for a while, but he hadn't realized how little attention he'd paid. 

* * *

They'd started having issues a couple of years in; Gabriel's star had risen and with it had his insistence that Aziraphale _look the part_ of a Hollywood beau. " _I'll pay for whatever kind of trainer you want to see, whatever you want Sunshine. Only the best for you."_ He'd always made it seem like he was _spoiling_ him. Like those comments were Gabriel's way of treating him rather than asking him to change something about himself. He'd always been on the softer side of things, but he hadn't minded. It was difficult to keep that same affection for his body when Gabriel seemed set on him changing it.

He'd threatened to leave once. Gabriel had wanted to take Aziraphale to some awards ceremony and had ordered him a tux to wear. Hoping that Aziraphale would drop weight before the event, Gabriel had ordered a smaller size than Aziraphale's usual. Not knowing the nature of the "goal" Gabriel had set for him, the several weeks before the event passed in a busy haze and before he knew it, it was the evening of the event and he was trying to squeeze into a tux that didn't fit over his generous thighs and soft belly.

_"Gabriel dear, my apologies, but I think the tailor got my measurements wrong. I can't quite get this on."_

_"Aziraphale, we talked about this. You were supposed to be meeting with the trainer and going to classes three or four times a week. What happened?"_

_"Things got busy! You know I don't always fancy the gym."_

_" Why am I paying for the trainer if you refuse to go?"_

_"I didn't_ ask _for the trainer in the first place! We'll talk about this later. What would you like me to wear? I have several lovely suits of my own, you know."_

_"I paid for this to be made for you so that you'd look your best on my arm. I don't have a backup plan."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Just stay home, okay? I know you don't like these things anyway. We'll talk when I get home."_

He'd been totally stunned that Gabriel had left things like that. After several glasses of wine he'd managed to book himself a one-way ticket back to London and was holding his phone in his hand with Crowley's number and a blank text screen. He wanted to tell him that he was coming home and that they should talk and that Crowley had been right all along.

Instead, he'd hear the lock click just after 2AM. Instead of drunk and boisterous like Gabriel usually was when he came home, he was a bit sheepish. _Good_ , though Aziraphale. He deserved to feel horribly after that abysmal display of partnership.

_"Sunshine, can we talk?"_

_"I'm not sure I have much to say."_

Gabriel had moved from the door to the side of the bed, close enough to see the confirmation screen for Aziraphale's plane ticket.

_"God, please, Aziraphale. Don't go. I'm an asshole, and you're so beautiful just the way you are. I'm under a lot of pressure but you didn't deserve that."_

_"Thank you for that. But I need you to be honest with me, Gabriel, do you love me? Unconditionally? I don't want to be in a relationship that requires me to be someone I'm not."_

Gabriel had kneeled next to the bed and grabbed Aziraphale's hand in both of this; they were soft and large and warm and completely covered even Aziraphale's plump fingers. His bowtie was undone, as well as the first few buttons of his crisp white shirt. His hair was a mess, as if he'd been running his hands through it. The effect was devastating. He certainly was quite handsome.

_"I do, Aziraphale. I love you, just as you are. I'll be better, I promise."_

_"Okay."_

_"Okay, you'll stay?"_

He'd squeezed Gabriel's hand, _"Yes. I'll stay."_

He'd canceled his ticket the next day and closed the draft to Crowley and that was that. As Gabriel had gotten more notoriety he spent more time away and Aziraphale had made himself busy with this and that; redesigning the new home that Gabriel had bought, meeting with a few casual friends for lovely brunches and dinners and tasting menus (which certainly hadn't help with Gabriel's concerns over his figure) but mostly he spent the next several years tending his home while Gabriel jetted off here and there. Occasionally he'd realize that he didn't remember when Gabriel had left or when he was coming home. It took finding him with someone else to make Aziraphale realize that it wasn't that he didn't remember, it was that somewhere along the line, he'd stopped _caring_. 

* * *

It seems so obvious now and he feels so silly for having wasted so much time living for someone else. It hadn't all been bad, but the initial spark and chemistry between them had fizzled out quickly. Not for the first time today he thinks about how much harder it is to see a relationship for what it is while you're in it.

He looks over to Crowley's prone form and can't help but think that maybe he missed more than just his failing relationship with Gabriel.

* * *

When he comes to, the first thing he feels is, strangely enough, well-rested. He goes to stretch and realizes quickly that not only is he not in his own bed (courtesy of his elbow colliding with the back of the couch), but he's also not alone (courtesy of years of hypervigilance). Sure there's no one on the couch with him, but he can feel the movement of the air and the unmistakable prickle of eyes on him before he looks up to confirm.

Once he does, he very nearly blacks out _again_. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on where you're proverbially sitting), what he was in the process of convincing himself was just a very vivid dream turns out to be very real and very much sitting in the horrid green chair he'd bought (because it reminded him of Aziraphale - _Oh God_ , _Aziraphale is here. Sitting in the Aziraphale chair. Fuck.)._

He wants to say something, because Aziraphale and he are locking eyes now, and he really needs to say something; anything at all would do. But, alas, all he can do is stare like a big dumb, uh, _dummy_ while his mouth slowly drops more and more open.

This is real, but it can't be real, but somehow it is very, very real and Crowley is having an out of body experience. He's dreamed of this in so many different ways; angry, with them screaming accusations and throwing things, sad, with Aziraphale coming back to tell Crowley he was pathetic and that his life was _so much better_ without him, and sometimes romantic, with candlelight and apologies and a dozen roses with Crowley's name on them (and sometimes they were even racy, starring Aziraphale's _lips_ with Crowley's name on them), but he'd never imagined it like this. This tense, weighted, electric silence.

He does take the opportunity to look his fill. His face is even more handsome now, the absolute _bastard_ , with a little bit of a color (likely from the LA sun) and the laugh lines that Crowley knew he'd get. He'd filled out a bit more which Crowley was _very_ interested in acquainting himself with the sight of, and he was wringing his hands like his life depended on it. The gesture was so familiar he could've cried at it. He'd watched those hands twine around themselves for _years_ and here they were again because who even knew what Crowley's life was anymore. 

He had the wild impulse to take a picture and send it to Anathema. He hasn't relied on her every validation for some time now, but he thinks this warrants a very well-earned _what the actual fuck?_ , which was one of his favorite of Anathema's American phrases.

Instead, he clears his throat and croaks out, _"Aziraphale, what are you doing here?"_

After an incredulous look in which Aziraphale is somehow scolding him for rudeness after ages of silence, he responds.

_"Lovely to see you too, Crowley."_ He's always been a bastard.

_"Mmyeah, okay. Good to see you, and so on. What are you_ doing _here?"_

_"Well, I supposed it's quite a long story, but the short of it is I broke up with Gabriel."_

_"You broke up with Gabriel."_

_"Yes, that's what I said. I supposed he may have broken up with me, actually. He was the one who was unfaithful, but I was the one who left. I'm not sure of the protocol, but the end result is the same.."_

_"He was unfaithful? He cheated on you angel?"_ Crowley hates with the burning passion of several suns how soft and protective his voice comes out and how quickly he reverts to the old nickname. _Chris_ _t_ he's pathetic.

_"Yes. But I suppose I really didn't mind that much in the end. It had been over for some time, it would seem."_

_"Ah. And you're, um, okay with this all? You're good?"_ He really couldn't hate himself more.

_"As good as one can be under the circumstances."_

_"Good. Good. Yeah, uh, good. Any reason you came back around here?"_

_"Hah, yes, that would be a bit of a shock considering-"_ he stops (Crowley wishes he would continue, _"Am I correct that you're the new owner?"_

_"Yeah, yes. I bought it when Gabriel was selling it. Seemed like you had a good piece of real estate and moving is a drag so, yeah, I just, well, bought it."_

_"Well it's lovely. I wouldn't have thought to put a café here, it would've attracted too many customers, but what you've done is lovely."_

There's a searing heat of praise through Crowley's chest; one he spent years believing he wouldn't feel again. He wants to cry and run into Aziraphale's arms. He wants this to be like his dreams where he's embraced and kissed and told that it was him all along. But this is his real life, not a Hallmark movie. 

_"Where are you staying? I'll give you a ride, anywhere you want to go."_ He just needs Aziraphale out of this place so he can process, remind himself what year it is and how old he is and how much progress he made and all of the reasons that he shouldn't throw himself at Aziraphale's feet.

_"Funny thing, I never really was much of a planner. I sort of just,"_ he makes a sweeping, complicated hand gesture that clears up absolutely nothing, _"and then I landed. It's been so long, I didn't even know where to look. I came here on autopilot."_

_"You don't have a place to stay?"_ He winces slightly at his tone.

_"I do not, but not to worry. The day is young."_ Aziraphale stands and walks to the door and wishes the day were slightly older so he could go to sleep. _"It really was, well,_ nice _to catch up. You've done wonderful things with the place, much better than I ever did. I should be off."_

Crowley panics. As much as he wants space, the feeling of Aziraphale walking away without any plans to see each other again now that he's _here_ and he and Gabriel aren't a thing anymore and _Aziraphale is here_ , seems nauseating.

_"Wait, angel. Sorry, um, Aziraphale. You must've had a long flight. You can stay with me, if you like."_

Aziraphale looks for a second like he might follow up Crowley's performance with a fainting act of his own. Unlike Crowley, he pulls himself together quickly.

_"Oh, I couldn't put you out. Surely you have things to do."_

_"Well erm, yeah. Drinks to make, books to lend, and the like, but I still have the flat upstairs. You, uh, know where it is. Nothings really changed."_

It hasn't. _Oh dear God preserve him,_ but it hasn't. Crowley's heart is beating a familiar pattern.

_"Well, it is rather chilly and I could use a nap. If you're sure that you wouldn't mind?"_

_"Yes, yeah, of course. It's unlocked, just go right on up and, uh, make yourself at home."_ Really? Make yourself at home? He was the world's worst at human interaction.

_"Thank you Crowley, you're too kind. I'll do that."_ He moves towards Crowley as if to embrace him in thanks. Crowley's body stiffens and leans as far as away as physics would allow before he fell right on his arse. _Again_ , he reminds himself. He hasn't even begun to deal with the mortification of _actually fainting_ when he saw Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale clocks the movement and lowers his arm, giving him a kind, tense, nod before heading up to Crowley's flat. The flat they used to share. The one that still has the bed that they occasionally slept in together when they'd overindulged.

Without thinking he opened the front doors, turned on the lights, and started up his various equipment. Short of an actual miracle, today was going to be a bloody constant test of his patience and mental fortitude and Crowley wasn't sure he'd be up to it. But he'd try. He owes himself that.

He hears the footsteps move from the staircase to the flat and not stop in the sitting room where he thought they would. He's momentarily distracted by his first customer who thankfully just wants a black coffee, before he realizes that the footsteps had stopped in the bedroom.

After a few minutes of listening only to the pounding of his pulse in his ears, he accepts that he'll be doing his normal daily thing while Aziraphale is perhaps asleep in his bed.

He's fine. He'sfinehe'sfinehe'sfine. 

He's nowhere near fine.


End file.
